


Do No Harm

by colonel_bastard



Series: A Symphony of Scars [2]
Category: The Great Mouse Detective (1986)
Genre: Community: disney_kink, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, Light Bondage, M/M, Molestation, Sexual Assault, Threats of Castration, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 11:44:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3326171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colonel_bastard/pseuds/colonel_bastard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“My dear, if I really were a doctor,” Ratigan whispers conspiratorially. “You wouldn’t be tied to this chair.”</i>
</p>
<p>Basil and Ratigan play doctor.  Things get out of hand— or rather, in hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do No Harm

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [disney_kink](disney-kink.livejournal.com): the prompter wanted Ratigan to have Basil captured and, I quote, "at his... mercy." 
> 
> Somehow I decided this should include an attempted castration. The mind works in mysterious ways.
> 
> Set after the events of [Claws](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3326012).

-

-

-

Ratigan was smart enough to tie the knots above the joint. It’s the first thing Basil notices when he regains consciousness, as he quickly rotates his wrists and discovers that the fastening is out of his reach. If there’s one admirable quality he can assign to his nemesis (and there are far more of these qualities than he would care to admit), it would be the ability to learn from his mistakes. The last time he had a chance to get Basil all tied up, he squandered the opportunity with a low-lying surgeon’s knot that had opened far too easily under the detective’s quick and clever fingers.

As his senses return to him, Basil attempts to assess the situation through half-lidded eyes, feigning unconsciousness for as long as possible. The jewel cabinet is being emptied out by a dozen or so thugs, bent almost double under enormous emeralds and oversized sapphires that are being carted down the newly-opened tunnel and out to the waiting tugboat. _Of course he would tunnel in from the wharf, they must have been working on it for weeks and Basil only just figured it out this morning, confound it all._

“Don’t think I don’t know when you’re awake, Basil,” a familiar voice purrs nearby. “I can see your ears twitching.” 

Well, that’s that. Basil sits fully upright and looks Ratigan square in the eye. “Hello again, old boy.”

Ratigan smiles a friendly smile. “Hello, Basil. You know, I’m not sure how you’ve managed it, but this disguise is somehow even more adorable than your last.”

The detective shrugs his arms significantly and smirks. “A pity you couldn’t choose a knot to match.” 

In an attempt to gain the trust of a jailed henchman, Basil had dressed himself as a surgeon and paid a visit to his cell. Somewhere between the administration of iodine and the promise of laudanum, the clues had suddenly gelled and Basil was off like a shot, stopping only long enough to alert the slow-footed police before charging into the fray, as always, alone. There were rather more thugs present than he had anticipated, and though he’d put up a damned good fight, one of them managed to land a lucky blow to his head, dropping him like a stone. Now he’s tied to a chair, arms threaded through the back and wrists bound on the other side, ankles fastened securely to their respective chair legs, and Ratigan standing before him with that maddening grin. 

“The spectacles are a nice touch,” the villain observes. “Although I’m not terribly fond of how they hide your eyes.”

He moves in close, closer, and Basil leans back as far he can, twisting his head as Ratigan reaches for him. Those damnable knots give him precious little room to maneuver and it’s quite easy for Ratigan to catch him by the chin and hold him in place while he carefully removes the silver-rimmed glasses from Basil’s face.

“There, now,” he murmurs. “That’s better.”

His hand lingers, the thumb curling around Basil’s jaw. The detective jerks his chin away in a huff. 

“I hope you know the police are on their way,” he snaps. 

“Ooohoohoo, the police?” Ratigan feigns distress, wringing his hands together. “How terrifying! I’m quivering, positively quivering.” He chucks Basil playfully under the chin before the detective can jerk it away again. “Come now, darling, you know as well as I do that incompetence is their only forte.” 

With a grand theatrical gesture, he slips the spectacles onto his own face, adjusting the bright little lenses so that they perch on the end of his muzzle. 

“Now, according to the logic of Basil, this makes me a doctor!” he announces, and a passing pair of henchmen offer automatic laughs of agreement. 

Ratigan pays them no heed. This show already has an audience; an ill-tempered captive audience, but the only audience that matters. Another flourish and he stoops over the black medical bag that the thugs found discarded just outside the cabinet. 

“Let’s see what kind of goodies we have in here, hmm?”

As he pops it open, he pulls a disappointed face, frowning up at his nemesis. 

“You know, I really expected to find your pipe and magnifying glass in here,” he sulks. “But of course you are such a stickler for details.”

One by one, he removes the surgical instruments and lays them in a crisp, regimental row on the polished wood floor. First come the bottles— one of laudanum and two of iodine. There’s a small silver pair of scissors, then a retractor. Ratigan gives a low, sinister laugh of pleasure when he finds the bone saw, and he laughs again when he produces the Liston knife. The last thing out of the bag is a fine bright scalpel, and this Ratigan chooses to hold on to as he rises to his full height. 

“You always bring me the best toys,” he winks. “My precious little Sawbones.” 

Basil pretends to look at him, but his gaze is directed over his shoulder, towards the door where he came in. He did tell the inspector where he was going— but they could be up to half an hour before they pull a squad together and find their way over here. Basil doesn’t have half an hour. He’s only got a few minutes, and he’ll have to make them last. 

“So you’re a surgeon now, are you?” he scoffs. “I can’t say it suits you.” 

“And why not?” Ratigan pouts. “I’m quite skilled with a knife, you know, and really, isn’t that all it takes? A steady hand and a strong stomach?”

“I suppose you’ll expect me to address you by your proper title, then.”

“If you please.”

As the villain slips off his jacket and rolls up his shirtsleeves, Basil feels himself shriveling up in fear. He fights to keep an arrogant smile on his face, but his fingers are clawing desperately at the air behind him, hoping to catch just a loop of the knot and pull it close enough for picking. 

Ratigan swoops in close and crouches before him, waving the scalpel before his eyes, catching the light before he sets to work. Between gloved forefinger and thumb, he pulls up one of the buttons on Basil’s waistcoat, and with a nimble stroke of the blade it slices free. He tosses it over his shoulder and the sound of it clattering away rings in the detective’s ears like the bells tolling doomsday. Moving quickly, Ratigan works through the rest of the buttons in similar fashion and short order. 

As his waistcoat is subsequently pulled open, Basil remarks in a strained voice, “If you really are a doctor, surely you must be familiar with the principle of nonmaleficence.”

“Oh, Basil, don’t be such a bore.”

In a sharp tone that stills his hand, Basil says, “First, do no harm.”

With infinite grace and patience, Ratigan allows his hands to slide up and over the detective’s knees, his elegant fingers hooking dangerously around the joints. 

“My dear, if I really were a doctor,” he whispers conspiratorially. “You wouldn’t be tied to this chair.”

“They bind their patients in Bedlam, Professor.”

“They’ll never get you into the madhouse, Basil,” Ratigan says affectionately. “You’re much too clever for that.” 

“Untie me, you fiend.”

Shaking his head with a rueful smile, Ratigan shrugs and resumes his work. After some consideration, he discards the spectacles, sets the scalpel aside for now, and begins to unbutton the detective’s crisp white shirt. 

“No, your mind is functioning perfectly,” he continues. “But I’ve heard that there are other parts of you that seem to be giving you some trouble.” 

“The only part of me in pain right now is my ears,” the detective snaps. “You do love the sound of your own voice, don’t you?”

“Everyone in the city knows that I have an interest in you, and as such I get to hear the most interesting little anecdotes.” The shirt is unbuttoned and Ratigan slips it open, pushing it down over Basil’s shoulders. “This one I heard from the lovely Miss Kitty.”

That freezes Basil’s tongue to the roof of his mouth, his banter going momentarily dry. He can see her now, the singer from the tavern, her soft white hands brushing sensuously under his chin, sliding down his chest— but how did Ratigan find out? Did she bring him the story of her own volition or did he ask her specifically about it? Basil should have known that the rat would have some connection to her, as far-reaching as his influence is in the underworld— the detective’s mind cranks into a blaze, accusations and paranoia rattling around in his skull, his nostrils flaring in silent, desperate panic. 

“She told me,” Ratigan maintains his conversational tone, although from the gleam in his eye he definitely knows he’s struck a nerve. “That the two of you were getting quite comfortable in the upstairs parlor. I heard all the yummy details, how she touched you here—” he strokes the side of Basil’s trembling face. “And here—” he traces a hand down his throat. “And how you were on the verge of committing a rare indiscretion until she reached— here.” 

Ratigan’s palm presses against Basil’s chest, his fingers twining deep under the fur until they find a familiar set of scars, raised to the touch like four lines of piano wire buried just under the skin. Basil holds his breath and refuses to look him in the eye. 

“You threw her to the floor and ran like the devil was on your tail,” Ratigan’s voice is as sweet and sinister as poison. “Were you thinking of me, precious?” 

“I was investigating a case,” Basil mutters. “She didn’t— she didn’t have the information I was looking for.”

“How sweet,” the rat smiles, not fooled for an instant. “You do care.” 

They remain that way for a long moment, Ratigan crouched at Basil’s feet, his hand over the detective’s pounding heart, tilting his head in an effort to force the other to meet his gaze. Finally, defiantly, Basil lifts his chin and their eyes meet— Ratigan’s eyes are bright and golden, unmistakably predatory but also strangely sincere. Basil wants to say something cruel to him but can’t think of anything fast enough. 

Across the way, someone drops something, and the resulting clatter and screamed accusations of clumsiness are enough to break their reverie. Ratigan shakes his head quickly and rises to his feet, sauntering back to the display of surgical instruments, stooping to claim the Liston knife. 

“Well. The doctor is in,” he announces. “And like the best of surgeons I am here to help.”

It’s fast, too fast, and then he’s kneeling before Basil and working with devastatingly quick fingers at the buttons of his fly. 

“For god’s sake, what are you doing?” Basil yelps, twisting helplessly against the ropes that bind him. 

“Why, I’m going to lighten your load, dear fellow,” Ratigan grins up at him, and the sincerity in his eyes is gone, replaced by white-hot wickedness. “By removing that which you seem to have no use for.” 

And just like that he’s yanked Basil’s trousers past his hips and down over his thighs, and he reaches around behind him to pull his tail free, giving it a fond little tug before sitting back on his heels to study what he has unveiled. Basil’s ears press flat against his skull, his teeth bared in fury, his eyes practically starting out of their sockets in outrage. 

“Ratigan, you vile creature!” he splutters. “What is the meaning of this?” 

“Poor little thing,” the villain sighs, and he gives the detective’s limp prick a condescending pat. “Doesn’t it just look so sad?”

Basil, gagging, wrenches his head to the side, his horrified eyes straining towards the door. How much goddamn time does the inspector need? What could possibly be taking them so long? He told them— told them to hurry— they’re still not here— Suddenly, his fevered gaze alights upon that wretched little bat, standing a short distance away and staring at them with goggled eyes. Revolted, Basil starts back with a sneer of surprise, and the reaction causes Ratigan to turn quickly to see what caused it. 

“Fidget,” he snarls. “Get back to work.”

“Whatcha got there, Boss?” Fidget mumbles, still staring. 

“You know what it is,” Ratigan says coolly. “It’s our old friend Basil. Now go.”

“Looks good,” the bat takes a cautious step closer. “Looks nice.”

“I said _go!_ ” the boss roars, and Fidget scrambles away as fast as his peg leg can carry him. Ratigan returns his attention to his captive with an apologetic smile. “So sorry about that, my dear. I do know how you cherish your privacy.” 

“Have you lost your mind?” Basil hisses, wishing he could control Ratigan’s eyes, pull them away from staring at him down there. 

Unexpectedly, Ratigan heaves a large, disappointed sigh, and he props his chin in his hand, his elbow resting lazily on one of the detective’s shaking knees. He looks up at him with a long-suffering half-smile. 

“You know, for someone so brilliant,” he laments. “You can be rather dense, Basil.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Let me show you.”

For a creature of such undignified origins, Ratigan does possess an undeniable gracefulness, and it’s with this finesse that he brings one of his gloved hands up to his lips. He also possesses a mouth full of incredible teeth, and he nips them delicately over his middle fingertip, catching the pristine white glove and pulling it smoothly off. He tosses it in the same direction as the waistcoat buttons, and even to an uninformed eye the discarded articles would present a very suspicious picture indeed. 

Without further ado, Ratigan licks his index finger, reaches between his captive’s legs, and draws his hot wet fingertip up along the length of Basil’s prick. The detective’s whole body arches up and he almost dislocates his own shoulders in his frantic, instinctive drive towards escape. Ratigan leans back just enough to give him room to struggle, then quickly licks his middle finger and repeats the gesture. 

It’s as inevitable as it is humiliating, but Basil feels heat and blood rushing down to his groin, his body responding while his mind screams against it. Ratigan notices immediately and says with a note of triumph, “Ah, there you are.” 

Now he moves in close, and he clamps an iron grip on Basil’s shoulder to prevent any more of that unsightly bucking and writhing. He doesn’t break eye contact with him as he draws his tongue along the length of his ring finger and brings it down again. Basil shudders and groans involuntarily, fighting to keep his eyes from rolling back as threads of pleasure begin to snake their way through his nerves. He forces himself to hold Ratigan’s eyes with his own. Heat boils between them, fire and electricity, and in some distant corner of his mind Basil finds himself believing that if anyone were to pass between them, they would be incinerated. 

The pinkie finger goes last, and Ratigan allows the claw to peek out of hiding, drawing a light, tingling trail along Basil’s length, now fully erect. Finally, he breaks their eye contact, just so he can look down at what he has called to life. 

“Ah, the sight that our dear Miss Kitty so desperately craved.” Ratigan meets Basil's gaze again. “And you show it only to me.”

“Listen— _doctor_ —” Basil knows his own voice sounds thin and weak, but it’s all he can manage. “You’re a medical man. You know— you know about— involuntary reflexes. The body reacts a certain way to— to— to mechanical stimulation—”

“I’ve not yet begun to show you stimulation, Basil.” 

Swiftly, brazenly, Ratigan licks the palm of his hand and takes hold of Basil, giving his prick a long, slow squeeze. He leans in and rises up to meet him, anticipating the detective’s surge forward, the way Basil drops his forehead against Ratigan’s massive shoulder, the way his mouth opens and a delicious hot gasp breaks from the back of his throat. Ratigan brings his free hand to the back of Basil’s neck, stroking him, claiming him. 

“Perhaps I shouldn’t remove it after all,” he growls, and when he pumps him again, Basil muffles his whimper against the fine grey silk of his enemy’s waistcoat. “Perhaps you can be taught how to use it properly.”

“Ratigan, please,” Basil says hoarsely. “Have mercy.” 

A sinister remark is surely on the tip of his tongue, when both of them suddenly have matched reactions— their heads twist and their ears strain upwards at the distant sound of a policeman’s whistle. The detective sobs, “thank God,” and slumps against the ropes, while the villain clicks his tongue in annoyance. 

“Such dreadful timing,” he huffs. “Just when things were getting exciting.”

As the whistles grow louder, pandemonium breaks out among the thugs. They drop what they’re carrying and bolt as one unit towards the tunnel exit, scrambling and shoving, a perfect portrait of the scum of the earth. 

Not so their master. As if he has all the time in the world, Ratigan rolls down his shirtsleeves and puts his jacket back on, pausing to check the time on his golden pocket watch. Then, much to Basil’s surprise, the villain returns to him, kneeling at his feet with an unreadable expression, one that doesn’t frighten the detective so much as confuse him. 

“My poor dear Basil,” Ratigan says. “I’d hate to leave you in such an embarrassing state.”

Deftly, he slips the detective’s trousers back up and into their proper place. Then, as gingerly as he can manage, he takes hold of Basil’s prick and tucks it up against his belly. When he re-fastens the fly, the erection is almost entirely concealed, and by the time he buttons up his shirt and tugs it down over his lap, no one would be the wiser. It will be their little secret. 

“I apologize for the discomfort, my sweet,” Ratigan shrugs. “But I’m sure you would prefer this to the alternative.”

Struck dumb by the bizarre chivalry of the gesture, Basil simply nods, dazed. He doesn’t even flinch when Ratigan gives his groin a final, gentle pat. 

“Take good care of this for me, will you?” the rat smirks. “I’ve grown rather fond of it.”

\- - -

By the time the police burst into the cabinet, Ratigan and crew are long gone, along with a majority of the gems. The only thing left for them to find is their old friend Basil of Baker Street, who hurls insults at them even as they’re untying him, raining down every curse imaginable on their ineptitude and incompetence. Once he’s free, it doesn’t take a master detective to notice his hunched posture and peculiar limping gait. 

The concerned inspector lays a hand on his shoulder and says, “He didn’t hurt you, did he, detective?”

With shocking vehemence, Basil smacks his arm away and snaps, “Don’t touch me!”

And that’s the only answer they can get out of him before he limps away, leaving them behind to scratch their heads and clean up the mess. 

 

 

 

________end.


End file.
